


Professionalism

by sunryder



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, M/M, Rough Trade, Sentinel/Guide Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-04-28 03:52:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5076754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunryder/pseuds/sunryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his fellow Gifted were being politically correct they called Grantaire a “courtesan.” But out of his hearing – and as the evening progressed – correctness went the way of the ballroom’s wine. No matter what they called him, Grantaire still sold his own Guide gifts, not through the rules and regulations of the Center, but to clients of his own choosing and for monetary gain. </p><p>Politely put: Grantaire was a prostitute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“What are you doing here, whore?”

Grantaire didn’t give the asshole the satisfaction of a sigh, but he was tempted. Instead, he painted on his most charming smirk. The one he trotted out when Valjean thought they ought to have lunch in the Sentinel Center café rather than in one of the 12,000 restaurants in Paris that would keep him from interacting with exactly the kind of fucker who thought it was smart to walk up to a Guide in a room packed full of Sentinels and call him a whore. 

Marius had actually introduced himself by punching someone who’d insulted Grantaire while he was in the lobby waiting for Valjean to step off the elevator. The punch had been terrible, and had probably done more damage to Marius’s hand than the other guy’s face, but the impulse was almost universally shared amongst any Sentinel worth the name. Two days later the same Sentinel might turn around and be the one to treat Grantaire like he was scum on the bottom of their shoe, but at the moment, their instincts wouldn’t let them stand idly by and listen to a Guide be insulted. 

Grantaire tended to ignore the hypocrisy until later, when he wasn’t concerned with ending his most recent spat before it turned into a metaphorical dick measuring contest. (When Guides fought, everyone ended up with a headache, and Grantaire in particular got stared at like he was a freak of nature.) “Like everyone else in the room, I was invited.” 

“By who?” The Sentinel spat, like he had the authority to throw Grantaire out. 

“I’m pretty sure the emails just get sent out automatically.”

Apparently teasing was not the way to go to diffuse this situation. The Sentinel sneered something about how Grantaire would know all about lists, wouldn’t he? The innuendo didn’t make much sense, but Grantaire had plenty of skill at interpreting disdain. 

Graintaire had mountains of practice with that particular tone since with his empathy he could usually feel the traditionalists in their Gifted community all but writhe with their abhorrence of him. Like he was tracking mud across their very souls with his stained feet. Though it was only the young, stupid, or drunk who actually put such a thing into words. Valjean didn’t hold with that kind of language and the old man was so strong that the stable, smart, and sober knew better than to challenge him. 

Or sometimes, they held their tongues because they had yet to discover a word that accurately conveyed their disdain because whore simply wasn’t potent enough. (At the last party one of the chaperones had called him a harlot. Grantaire couldn’t even be mad at the revulsion underneath it because the word had made him giggle.) 

Their righteous indignation would have been more meaningful if Grantaire hadn’t been able to feel the lust dripping off most of them, trailing invisible rivulets down their skin like a moment in his company was the hormonal equivalent of breathless, sweaty, midsummer sex. The man currently calling him a whore and trying to use his bulk and his flying spittle to back Grantaire into a corner was all but vibrating with the urge to slam Grantaire down and take his mouth right there in front of witnesses to prove that he was the one who could make Grantaire submit, that he was Sentinel enough to bring him to his knees. 

Those that didn’t make Grantaire want to scrub off the feel of the their grasping, greedy fingers made his stomach churn with their jealousy. The old biddy who’d introduced ‘harlot’ into his vocabulary had nearly crackled green with envy at the thought of bedding someone other than the Sentinel she’d settled on. 

There’d been a boy when she was young. An ungifted boy with a thick, tangle of curly black hair that she’d always wanted to plunge her hands into and drag him into a kiss. Decades later and still she wondered what that hair would’ve felt like between her fingers. She hated Graintaire, not because of what he’d done, or who’d slept with, but because she never had. 

Every Guide had their own talents, their own predisposition towards certain Gifts. Just as certain Sentinels had better eyesight, or sense of smell, or were naturally more lethal in a fight, a Guide might be better at instilling a sense of calm, or focusing senses. For Grantaire, his empathy was off the charts, and he wasn’t good at much else. 

(The two people Grantaire had come across who had been selflessly disappointed with his life choices had been what brought him to his knees.) 

When he’d first come online the constant barrage of other people’s emotions had driven him to drink just to get through the day. Grantaire could barely articulate how grateful he was that Valjean had taken him under his wing. Most of the supervisors that the Center assigned to the underage Gifted would’ve given Grantaire a lecture on self control and told him he just needed to find his Sentinel to keep himself under control. Valjean however, had dragged Grantaire to a clinic and gotten him sober. Unbonded Sentinel though he was, Valjean found his center and kept his balance through his faith, which didn’t do much for Grantaire, but the man had encouraged him to find something similar. Jehan was the one who’d pointed out how happy Grantaire was when he was painting, and how silly it was that Grantaire had been encouraged to give it up because it wasn’t a skill he could use to support his Sentinel. 

From there, things had sort of just spiraled. He and Jehan had both been poorly served by the Center’s traditional way of doing things, and tender-hearted Jehan wondered if perhaps there might be others in their same predicament who weren’t quite so lucky. They’d put together a business of sorts, one where they helped those Sentinels and Guides who were struggling to find a better way to handle their Gifts. 

When his fellow Gifted were being politically correct they called Grantaire a “courtesan.” But out of his hearing – and as the evening progressed – correctness went the way of the ballroom’s wine. No matter what they called him, Grantaire still sold his own Guide gifts, not through the rules and regulations of the Center, but to clients of his own choosing and for monetary gain. Half the time Grantaire refused who the Center referred to him, and took who they told him to stay away from, just to be contrary. 

Politely put: Grantaire was a prostitute. 

“Don’t say that about yourself!” He could practically hear Jehan scolding, but it was true. While he and Jehan technically ran their little business together, romantic that Jehan was, he only offered strictly platonic services. Grantaire, however -- when the inclination struck him -- had no qualms with sleeping with a Sentinel that wasn’t his. Apparently that ‘promiscuity’ made him the dregs of Gifted society. 

In fact, after the spitting Sentinel stormed away, a gaggle of other Gifted felt like walking up to tell him just that. Grantaire had gotten accustomed to being shunned and berated, but he could only get called a whore so many times in one night before it started to wear on him. The wearing might not have cut quite so deep if any of his so-called-friends had intervened when he started projecting stress and “come save me!” vibes five minutes ago. 

Grantaire only gone to the damn Sentinel-Guide mixer in the first place because Jehan needed someone to stand in the corner with to make his hopeless pining for Courfeyrac seem less creepy. 

For all Jehan’s numerous friends, Grantaire was the only other Gifted he could trust to lurk with him without a lecture. Friends like Joly and Musichetta would curl up with Jehan and encourage him to just climb into bed with Courfeyrac and his platonic triad and make the best of it. (“It’s not like Combeferre and Enjolras aren’t fun to look at.”) On the other hand, Bossuet and Eponine would break out the wine and the Chinese takeout and point out that they’d seen the way Courfeyrac watched Jehan, and if Courf wasn’t willing to fight for him, he wasn’t worth the energy. 

Despite their advice, they were all ungifted, and not even Jehan’s poetry could adequately explain that, for all they weren’t having sex, the members of the triad were fundamental to one another. Or rather, Courf and Ferre were necessary to Enjolras.

On paper, Enjolras St Just was a middling Sentinel. His senses were barely stronger than a regular human’s and he’d written half a dozen articles about his distaste for the physical violence that established Gifted hierarchies. But despite that, the whole community called him Apollo. (Outside his limited hearing range, of course.) 

Not because of his golden hair and wrathful temper, though they were both contributing factors, but because his voice set the blood on fire. 

In the ten years he’d been online Enjolras’s little sub-pack of students and revolutionaries had done more for Guide rights than had been done since the Revolution. They had shifted what it meant to serve the tribe, that millennia-old imperative that governed all Sentinels. Yes, Sentinels could still serve in the military or the police force if they chose, but Enjolras believed more in serving through clothing the naked and feeding the hungry than fighting against France’s enemies. Without Enjolras, Grantaire and Jehan probably would’ve been hauled into the Center for remedial Guide training and doped until they caved to an unwilling bonding that might keep them in line. This meant the Council’s elite hated him, while the young and the ordinary would follow him to hell and back. 

But Enjolras was nothing without Courfeyrac and Combeferre. 

Though one was a Guide and the other a Sentinel, together the both of them were enough to keep Enjolras balanced most of the time. He still spiked a few times a month, but they were nothing compared to the near constant pain he’d been in before they’d started operating as close to a triad as they could get without actually having sex with each other. 

Grantaire had actually met Enjolras when his partners brought him in to Jehan for a meditation session, which had been fruitless since stillness cranked up Enjolras’s brain rather than calmed it. Jehan had recommended yoga with Grantaire, but the two of them couldn’t stop arguing long enough to get into downward-facing dog. They whole triad had regular appointments with Jehan after that, while Grantaire got called upon only in dire situations. (Apparently he annoyed Enjolras so much that the man would center his senses just to be in a position to shout at him.)

Now the three of them were entwined in such a way that Courf and Ferre couldn’t, and wouldn’t, leave until Enjolras had someone who could give him more support than they could. Basically, Jehan could be Courfeyrac’s one true Guide out of a fairy tale and they would still be apart because Courf wouldn’t abandon his best friend, and Jehan wouldn’t want the kind of man who would. 

Grantaire couldn’t fault Jehan for spending the whole evening flitting back and forth between Grantaire’s desert-stacked plate and scattered clumps of people who happened to be in the general vicinity of Courfeyrac. He didn’t mind the isolation, or that he would be stuck doing cardio tomorrow to burn through all the calories he’d consumed tonight, or that Valjean would surely hear about this and turn up Grantaire’s flat to repair the damage to his self esteem. Grantaire had arrived at the party with his game face on and a suit so perfectly tailored that he looked lithe and delectable with an ass you could bounce a coin off of. He had expected the dirty looks he always got when he went into polite society, but sometimes the words still managed to slice through him like knives. 

He could forgive Jehan for leaving him to run a gauntlet of cruelty since the poor fool had tripped over his own two feet and spilled a cup of green tea down Combeferre’s back. 

Where Jehan had gotten tea at a mixer Grantaire didn’t know, but that seemed insignificant compared to the twist of fate that had led to spilling on Combeferre. Courfeyrac would’ve laughed and Jehan would’ve spent the next twenty minutes in pleasant conversation, because no one could make freaking lemonade out of lemons like Courf. Hell, the man could make lemon cream pie. Even Enjolras was likely to turn it into a diatribe about the poor treatment of Guides somehow leading to his clumsiness.

Combeferre on the other hand, Grantaire couldn’t actually recall a time when he’d seen Combeferre smile. Or talk to someone who wasn’t Courf or Enjolras. 

So while Jehan could be forgiven, Courfeyrac could not. Neither could Marius who was only technically considered a friend because of their mutual tie to Valjean. Marius, however, probably considered everyone from his professors to the barista at Starbucks to be friends. Those two were supposed to scent social discomfort in the air and sweep in to make everything better. They’d managed to save Grantaire from awkward, “How can you disgrace our people like this?” conversations before, and he’d silently been expecting them to do it again.

Grantaire was not at all contemplating the notion that he might’ve liked Enjolras to engage in some of that primitive nonsense that drove everyone else who’d spoken to him tonight. Maybe knock someone out with the hindbrain aggression he found so reprehensible and then drag Grantaire into a kiss that he just couldn’t help but melt into because Enjolras had defended his nonexistent honor, and really, Grantaire needed to spend less time with Jehan if these were the kind of thoughts he was having.

Either way, Grantaire had seen Enjolras across the room just before he started getting berated the first time. He didn’t know where Enjoras had run off to, but it hadn’t been to help him. 

Not that Grantaire had expected it, but it would’ve been nice. 

Enjolras had interrupted at least half a dozen of these spiteful interludes before, though never quite on purpose. The two of them could spat and tease and infuriate one another, but mercy help whatever fool tried to talk one of them like they spoke to each other. The last person who wasn’t Grantaire who called Enjolras Apollo to his face had gotten glowered within an inch of his life, while someone who’d grumbled about Enjolras being defunct had Grantaire lay bare his inadequacies for all and sundry to hear. 

More often than not, Grantaire preferred to just lead his heckler around the room into Enjolras’s hearing range, twisting around the conversation to make it sound like it wasn’t so much about Grantaire’s sexual proclivities as it was about the sexual double standards that plagued all Guides. Enjolras would turn away from the gaggle of Guides hanging on more to the movements of his mouth than his actual words and come to spar with Grantaire. With the Sentinel and his notorious temper by his side, Grantaire would be safe from scorn for the rest of the night. 

On this night however, it seemed his entire support system had vanished, leaving him alone to smash a slice of cake into someone’s face and storm out of the mixer to the sound of affronted shrieks. By the time he made it home the only thing to be grateful for was that his flat had amazing soundproofing. He stripped out of the suit and donned the grubby sort of painting clothes he’d never wear in front of a client and settled in front of his easel on the little second floor he called his studio. 

The soundproofing meant Grantaire could crank his stereo as loud as he wanted and paint away the throbbing ache that came from another reminder that Enjolras wasn’t his. He would’ve felt better if he was just hurt by the scorn he had felt coming at him from all directions, but it didn’t help that all that scorn just fed right in to Grantaire’s belief that no matter what he did, or how hard he tried, Enjolras would never choose him. Not that Enjolras held with that animalistic bonding, taking a Guide the first time you meet them, sort of thing. (And not that Grantaire had had dreams about Enjolras doing that very thing.) Getting left alone to be derided as a whore was just par for the course for Grantaire, but still, he wanted to spend the night with his playlist and his painting to purge the ache from his system before he had to face Jehan and his knowing eyes the next morning.

The trouble with that cranked sound system was that along with taking control of Grantaire’s heartbeat and livening it back up, it managed to drown out the buzzing of Grantaire’s cell phone. Which under normal circumstances would be fine, but on this particular night turned out to be a clusterfuck. 

The baseline of the current song was a little thumpier than Grantiare remembered, but he didn’t pay much attention since that suited his mood. At least, not much attention until his front door slammed open. 

“Grantaire!” Jehan shouted, and Grantaire lurched half over the mezzanine railing to see what had him here so late. (Or early as the case may be.) Only it seemed Jehan hadn’t slammed open the door in a fit of his own melancholy since Courfeyrac was following right behind him. 

Grantaire gave them both his dirtiest possible grin. “And what are you two up to?”

“Enj is spiking in zone.” Courf declared, with not a trace of his usual cheer. 

“He-he’s what?” Grantaire’s heart dropped into his stomach. Usually when a Sentinel zoned they slipped into something that could most closely be described as a coma. Spiking occurred when a Sentinel lost control of their senses, and usually led to a zone. Both were something the right Guide could pull them out of. A spiking zone was the blending of both: no control over senses and no ability to fight it. 

“He just dropped at the party. Courf says that one minute he was grumbling about having to be there in the first place and the next he grabbed his head and hit the floor. He’s not together enough to tell us what set him off.” 

Grantaire scrambled down his stairs, grabbing a jacket and calling out, “Where is--”

“I helped Combeferre and Courf get him back to their apartment, but the two of us weren’t enough to pull him out.”

“Did you—”

“He screamed when the Alpha Prime Guide touched him.” Courfeyrac interrupted. As a Sentinel himself, he didn’t understand why the two Guides were still standing around talking when they should already be out the door. 

“The Alpha Prime is an asshole,” Grantaire snapped. “That doesn’t tell me anything about what’s going on.”

“Enj is in agony, what the hell else do you need to know?” Courfeyrac shouted. “If this is about your fee, then--”

Jehan stopped him with a slap. The fury on the sweet Guide’s face was enough to tell Courfeyrac that he’d crossed a line. Jehan stretched out the same hand that had just stung Courfeyrac’s face and took Grantaire’s hand in his.

“R--” Courfeyrac tried to apologize, but Jehan cut him off. “You don’t get to call him that!”

Courfeyrac raised his hands in peace. “Grantaire, I’m sorry. That was completely uncalled for. It’s just, he’s my brother. He’s my brother and he’s hurting, and for the first time in a long time, there’s nothing I can do to help him.” Grantaire’s night had been rough enough that he didn’t really give a shit about Courf basically calling him a whore just like everyone else had, but the explanation was appreciated. Jehan still kept his hands on Grantaire though, denying Courfeyrac any sign that the apology was accepted.


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire could feel Enjolras the moment they stepped off the elevator. What had been just an itch at the back of Grantaire’s mind when they were down on the street blossomed into burning gouges when they got into range of the flat. The psionic proofing around Enjolras’s posh flat should’ve kept Grantaire from feeling a damn thing until the door was open. That Enjolras was in so much pain from spiking he could project through the proofing told Grantaire pretty much everything he needed to know about the situation.

 

Combeferre met them directly inside the front door. He didn’t bother exchanging pleasantries or trying to explain the situation with words. Instead, he pressed two shaking fingers to Grantaire’s temple and slipped the knowledge into his mind like Eponine had taught him to pick a pocket.

 

Grantaire had mocked Combeferre a thousand times for restricting himself with the same silly motion as a movie telepath. Combeferre’s concerns about consent and mental privacy made him pretend like he could only slip inside another’s mind when he was touching their skin, and forced himself to stick to that rule when he probably could’ve told Grantaire all about this from halfway across the city. Despite all the sad puppy eyes from Jehan, Combeferre stuck to his ethics and Grantaire almost forgot just how talented he was. At least, until Combeferre dropped a parcel of emotion and information into Grantaire’s mind and it took his breath away.

 

Combeferre’s mind was a like a lake at dawn: smooth as glass and perilously deep. The serenity of his mental space was what allowed him to sort through memories and emotions and perfectly package them for delivery to someone else. Sharing was something they tried to teach all powerful Guides, but the Sharing tended to get muddled by the Guide’s own perceptions and reactions. Combeferre knew himself so well and that self was such an even-tempered fellow, that transference never posed a problem. (No matter how much the two protested otherwise, Grantaire was still a little stunned that Combeferre wasn’t actually Enjolras’s Guide. He’d never had the chance to romp around Enjolras’s mind, but the Sentinel’s mental landscape couldn’t possibly be far off Combeferre’s. Grantaire imagined if the two of them didn’t have Courfeyrac to scold them for giving up on a true match, they would bond just to be done with the hassle.)

 

As it was, the lump of knowledge Combeferre gave Grantaire was agonizing.

 

Enjolras hadn’t spiked in a zone like this since they were children, but even for mild Combeferre it still haunted his nightmares. Combeferre shared with Grantaire the memory of a younger Enjolras, still skinny like a string bean with the closely-shorn hair that his father had always insisted upon, writhing atop his bed like he would’ve rather his skin be peeled off. Courfeyrac had tried to hold him down to keep him from scratching himself until he bled, but he’d screamed at pressure, and shrieked until his voice gave out and he couldn’t articulate a word for nearly a week afterwards.

 

Combeferre had done him the favor of stripping away as much emotion as he could so Grantaire could be clinical about the experience. But for all Combeferre’s control, he couldn’t keep Grantaire from feeling the gnawing terror that had consumed young Combeferre and Courfeyrac for days before the Center had managed to pull Enjolras out of his spiking zone. He also hadn’t managed to conceal the desperation that this kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen to Enjolras again, not after the steps they’d taken to protect him.

 

Grantaire let the memory rush over him before he started for the bathroom where Combeferre had tucked Enjolras away while the others came to fetch him. “What did the Center do to pull him out the last time he spiked like this?”

 

“It wasn’t like this before. He was in pain, but he wasn’t really cognizant of anything the last time his spikes got out of control. Now he’s in pain, but he’s together enough to at least keep control of himself.”

 

Grantaire wanted to snap that it wasn’t that the pain was less, it was just a lifetime of dealing with it, but Combeferre obviously knew that without Grantaire grinding salt into his wound. Jehan gave Grantaire’s hand a sharp squeeze, tugging him to a stop quite against his will. If he stuck around much longer he would say something just as horrible as Courfeyrac did, and every moment he stood here was a moment Enjolras was trying to keep himself in one piece. But Jehan was far better at seeing around corners than Grantaire, so despite his aching need to get in there and fix whatever had thrown Enjolras out of balance, he stayed.

 

Jehan fixed Combeferre and Courfeyrac with his most furious glower – which honestly, called up thoughts of an agitated kitten – and demanded, “What did the Council do for him before?”

 

Combeferre stood there like a marble statute, his slow, meditative breathing the only sign he was actually still alive. As usual, Courfeyrac was the one who stumbled out, “Before?”

 

He sounded confused, like he couldn’t understand why Jehan was standing there asking questions when there was an Enjolras to be saved, but Jehan seemed to hear something that Grantaire did not. “The last time Enjolras spiked. What technique ultimately pulled him out?”

 

“I don’t remember.” Courfeyrac declared.

 

Jehan tilted his head, and even without him Grantaire would’ve been able to tell that didn’t make sense. “You’re lying. Why are you lying? You’re just making it harder for R to help him. That doesn’t make sense.”

 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac shared a long look, one of those that only happens with friends who’ve known each other for half their lives. And Jehan wasn’t having any of it. “You dragged us out here in the middle of the night, insulted my friend, and now you’re leaving your supposed brother to lay there in such agony that I want to curl up in a ball and cry just from the proximity, and you’re lying.”

 

Still they didn’t say anything.

 

“Fine.” Jehan snapped. “Grantaire, go and piece Enjolras back together so he can leave the apartment. Then we’ll take him back to yours.” Jehan twisted around and shoved open the bathroom door, managing to do it with just enough force that it didn’t slam against the wall and make things worse for Enjolras while still making his displeasure known. Despite his sweet face, one did not fuck with Jehan when he was in a mood, so Grantaire just nodded along and did as he was told.

 

At least, he tried. He made it a whole two steps towards the bathroom before Combeferre said, “He’s on Sentictal.”

 

Grantaire paused, then took those two steps backwards and twisted around to glower into Combeferre’s space. Courfeyrac twitched at the obvious threat to his best friend and de facto Guide, but Jehan boxed him out with a glare of his own.

 

“I’m sorry, I must have misheard you. Because there is no way in the world you three were stupid enough to think letting Enjolras, a low-level Sentinel, not only _go on_ Sentical, but _stay on it_ for years.”

 

Once again, the two had nothing to say.

 

Grantaire threw his hands in the air and left them to Jehan’s vicious mercies. Honestly, he’d thought that Jehan was joking about running off with Enjolras but he was starting to give the idea some credence.

 

For all that Grantaire was considered a prostitute by the posher elements, he and Jehan’s little business was devoted to helping those Sentinels and Guides who weren’t properly served by the system. They did art, and yoga, and non-spiritual meditation, and yes, sex. To have one of their friends – holy shit, even nothing more than a passing acquaintance – dependent on Sentical in order to function was horrifying.

 

The drug was meant for temporary use, something to help a high-powered Sentinel when they went too long without a compatible Guide to help them ground their senses, or even to help a Sentinel regain their footing after their Guide died. The drug dampened sensory responses, and had its positives since it kept 15% of widowed Sentinels from committing suicide. Even when it was prescribed it was only to be administered in short-term, emergency situations. And it certainly wasn’t meant for anyone under 21 like Combeferre and Courfeyrac were suggesting Enjolras had been when he’d started. If it was taken before a Sentinel fully matured it could permanently damage their senses. Holy shit, Grantaire was pretty sure they hadn’t even done studies on the effects of long-term usage because it was obviously doing damage on the short term users! Combeferre and Courfeyrac would be lucky to survive the grilling Jehan was about to give them to get to the bottom of this, and he couldn’t even imaging the guilting Enjolras would get when he finally leveled out.

 

Grantaire slipped into the bathroom and closed his eyes to center himself as he slipped the door shut behind him. He’d be no good to Enjolras if he walked in radiating fury with thoer other’s stupidity and Enjolras’ hypocrisy. Instead, he drew in a deep breath of chamomile from the candles Combeferre had the sense to situate around the room, and tried to let the frustration waft away with his breath.

 

He wasn’t in a place to judge anyone for how they dealt with their own gifts since he’d wasted a few years self-medicating with alcohol. If anything, it wasn’t anger that Enjolras had been on Sentical, but that he’d kept it from them. They weren’t the best friends in the world but at the very least he shouldn’t have hidden it from Jehan! This is what they did! Helping Sentinels and Guides in the same damn situation as Enjolras and he couldn’t bring himself to trust them to help him through it.

 

All right, maybe letting the anger go wasn’t proving to be the best option. Countless therapy sessions with Valjean had taught him that stuffing it all into a box at the back of his mind was its own kind of terrible and given his current state Enjorlas would probably be able to feel it burning away under his skin anyway.

 

Instead, he put the irritation on a shelf to have a loud conversation about later. (Yelling was what he meant. He’d yell. And Enjolras would yell. And Jehan would make the both of them sit down on pillows and use ‘I’ phrases to explain how they were feeling. And this time Enjolras wouldn’t be allowed to storm out of the apartment in a huff, and Grantaire wouldn’t be allowed to crank up his music to drown out Enjorlas’ harsh criticisms.

 

He drew another calming breath, opened his eyes, took in the scene, and slammed them shut again to tamp down a whole other kind of fire.

 

Grantaire was aware that Enjolras was annoyingly pretty. He had _eyes_ , thank you. But it was one thing to know that Enjolras was nice to look at when he was wrapped up in three piece suits and ranting about systematic injustice. (Or when the jacket came off and his sleeves were rolled up to bare his lovely forearms. Or he got caught up in writing and managed to spend three days in flannel pajamas that hung low on his narrow hips and a threadbare t-shirt that Grantaire kind of wanted to rub his face against to see if it was as soft as it looked.)

 

But seeing Enjolras naked was something else.

 

There was a trail of clothes leading from the doorway to the massive tub where Enjolras had retreated. He was fully immersed in lukewarm water that wrapped around him like a quilt, deadening all his senses to something more bearable. But on the other hand, the water did not a thing to blur Grantire’s view. The soft glow of the candles were meant to be gentle on Enjolras’ eyes when he finally decided to open them, but right now they did little more than make him shine like a fallen star. It was the softest Grantaire had ever seen him, sharp lines blurred by the twist of the water and easiness of the light, and his hair drifting in a halo like he was the heroine in some Romantic painting.

 

Grantaire breathed his way through the rush of want that always accompanied the sight of Enjolras. Now was not the time to get wrapped up in daydreams about running his tongue along the dips and hollows of Enjolras’ stomach.

 

With his senses on overload Enjolras must have sensed he had company and floated slowly to the surface of the water. He poked just his nose out to draw a deep breath and his visitor’s scent before he sunk back down.

 

Only… Enjolras paused halfway through his breath and jackknifed up out of the water.

 

Grantaire dashed over, crooning, “You’re all right. You’re safe.” He kept himself patiently on the outside of the tub’s edge since Enjolras had firm rules about his personal space, but in the blink of an eye Enjolras’ hand darted out and seized Grantaire by the wrist, hauling him up and over into the tub. Grantaire desperately tried to focus on the way his grubby sweatpants were now too soaked to be comfortable and not at all on the strong thighs beneath him, or on the cold nose pressed to the hollow of his throat sucking in long breaths of Grantaire’s scent.

 

Grantaire ran trembling hands up and down Enjolras’ spine, simultaneously hoping that this moment would never end and that when it inevitably did Enjolras wouldn’t give him a lecture on inappropriate touching. He kept up the long, slow strokes until Enjolras came to himself enough to pause. Despite his head still being firmly entrenched in Grantaire’s shoulder, Grantaire could easily imagine the hesitant expression Enjolras always got in the moment before he panicked because common sense hit him like a bat.

 

They all lived in terror of that expression. Partly because it meant coming up with a new plan, but mostly because Enjolras never handled reminders that he didn’t think quite like everyone else very well. “You think you can maybe tell me what’s going on here, Apollo?”

 

Enjolras’ ears lit up red like Christmas lights. “You… uh, smell good.”

 

“You’re not the first person to tell me so.”

 

Enjolras growled into Grantaire’s skin. Grantaire tilted his head back to stare at him, because that was the kind of shit that Enjolras absolutely did not do. Enjolras’ face had gone from blush to out and out mortification. “Hey, hey, hey, calm down. I take your growls as a compliment. And you don’t have to worry about me telling anybody, because let’s be honest, who would believe me?”

 

Enjolras drummed his fingers on Grantaire’s back, like he was twitching his way through solving a problem “What happened?”

 

“You started spiking in a zone at the party. As to why, we’re not really sure. We were hoping you could tell us.”

 

“Ferre?”

 

“Couldn’t pull you out. Jehan tried as well, but he had no luck. He and Courfeyrac came to get me while Combeferre stayed back and dropped you in the tub.”

 

“You’ve always been good at that.” Enjolras slumped forward again, though he pointedly kept his face away from the fragile skin of Grantaire’s throat. Compliments from Enjolras always made him shiver, especially since Enjolras wasn’t one for saying things he didn’t mean.

 

But as much as Grantaire secretly adored the compliments, they were difficult to swallow coming from Apollo. Especially on this night. “You mean good at pulling your head out of your ass?” He’d tried to sound teasing, shrugging off the kind words by riling him up, but his voice was too brittle to mean it.

 

Normally Enjolras would’ve snapped something back anyway since he seemed to assume that every word coming out of Grantaire’s mouth was designed to infuriate him, but tonight he cocked his head to the side and eavesdropped on the scolding that was no doubt still taking place outside of his door. He hefted out a heavy sight and thunked his head back against the tub’s edge. “You know about the Sentical.”

 

“ _Know_ doesn’t really cover it. Furious maybe. But—” Grantaire cut Enjolras off before he could start offering some eloquent explanation that would somehow make such stupidity seem like the best course. “We’re not talking about it tonight.”

 

“R—”

 

“No! You just came out of zone and me yelling at you for not trusting fucking _someone_ with this is just going to make things worse!”

 

Grantaire knew his volume wasn’t helping. He knew that if he kept sitting there either his words would get violent or his fists would, and both would do the kind of damage he’d actually feel bad about tomorrow. Instead he went to haul himself out of the tub and give them both enough space to calm down, and Enjolras snarled. He dragged Grantaire forward, one arm going around his shoulders to clench him against Enjolras’ chest, and the other slipping from Grantaire’s back to his ass.  

 

Granatire was so stunned he didn’t even bother fighting it, which was good because that meant it only took about three seconds for Enjolras’ brain to catch up with his body. He froze, but he still didn’t let go. Against his chest Grantaire could feel the rumble of Enjolras clearing his throat before he delicately rambled, “Your body is your own, and obviously you’re allowed to do whatever you’d like with it, but I, uh, seem to be having a reaction to the thought of you walking away from me when you’re mad.”

 

“I’m getting that actually.” Enjolras gave an involuntary squeeze of his ass and Grantaire absolutely did not squeak. “Can you think of any particular reason why?”

 

“You smell nice.”

 

“Yes, we’ve covered that. But since I smell more like paint and panicked sweat than anything else right now, I think there might be something else going on here.”

 

“I can’t think of anything.”

 

“Do you think that might be because your higher brain functions aren’t really working right now?”

 

“My higher brain functions are always working.”

 

Enjolras sounded genuinely offended at that, so Grantaire felt the need to point out, “You do realize that you’ve been groping my ass for the past few minutes, right?”

 

Rather than rip his hands away in embarrassment, Enjolras just… paused. He pursed his lips in the way he always did before he pointed out some fatal flaw that would eviscerate the idiots who argued against him – Grantaire could feel the motion against his collarbone and refused to shiver. “Do you find that objectionable?”

 

Grantaire’s brain derailed for a moment there before he stumbled out, “No?”

 

“You sound unsure.”

 

“Well, no offense, but at this moment I’m pretty sure I slipped on the tile and I’m hallucinating this.”  

 

“Is it a _good_ hallucination?”

 

“Enjolras, are you high right now?”

 

Grantaire had been implying that Enjolras obviously hadn’t looked in a mirror recently if he thought it was at all possible for Grantaire to regret being in his lap – and apparently his olfactory senses were worse than Grantaire gave them credit for if he couldn’t smell the almost constant low-grade arousal that hit whenever he saw him. However, Enjolras seemed to take it in a different way. “I don’t use the Sentical to get high. I use it because I can’t function without it!”

 

Grantaire wove his fingers through Enjolras’ hair, using deep, gentling strokes to pull him back from that heartbroken tone in his voice. Enjolras wasn’t offended at inadvertently being called a junkie, he was hurt.

 

“And I get that. Of all people, I get that. But that also means that I know there has to be a better way to handle whatever in the hell is going on in your head, and you know it too. You’ve lectured other Sentinels about the perils of being dependent on medications rather than turning to other people! I remember the speech because you gave it to Jehan and I eight times just to keep yourself from saying anything that was full of shit!

 

Enjolras didn’t respond. Never before in the course of their friendship had Enjolras not responded. “Have you zoned? Is that what’s happening right now?”

 

“No.”

 

“Seriously? ’No,’ that’s all you’re giving me? I am literally sitting on your naked lap and you’re not freaking out about it. I’m beginning to think you had a reaction.”

 

“Believe me, I am entirely aware about where you are.”

 

Grantaire just stopped. From anyone else that would be a hint that Grantaire’s presence on top of Enjolras’ groin wasn’t just acceptable, it was arousing. But that wasn’t possible. Not even a little bit.

 

“Did you know that you gesture quite a bit when you scold me?”

 

“So what if I do?” Enjolras just raised an eyebrow at him. A single eyebrow that declared Grantaire had to be an idiot if he couldn’t actually piece this one together on his own. Grantaire was admittedly not at his best at this particular moment since most of his brain power was devoted to the voice in the back of his head telling him not to get hard, so Enjorlas was forced to give a little roll of his hips to get his… point across.

 

“Oh…” Grantaire blushed crimson, and that little voice shut up and started doing a happy dance.

 

Grantaire had always imagined that if Enjolras was ever attracted to someone – and yes, he’d devoted an unhealthy amount of time imagining Enjolras in such scenarios – that he’d be the sort of guy who wanted three different forms of consent, all signed and notarized before he actually touched them. Imagine how pleased Grantaire was to discover that this was not the case.

 

Enjolras’ pupils were blown wide. Rather than stopping to take that unnecessary moment to verify that yes, in fact, the thundering heartbeat actually meant exactly what Enjolras thought it did only to end up ruining the moment, Enjorlas lunged. At least, as well as one was able to lunge in a bathtub. He sealed their mouths together with teeth-clacking force. It took Grantaire half a moment to catch up, but when he did he buried his hands in Enjolras’ curls and gave as good as he got. There was nothing dignified about their kisses. Just wet, sloppy, hungry devouring of lips since neither one of them could be bothered to take their time.

 

Enjolras wrenched back, nearly slamming his head against the rim of the tub. Grantaire half followed him, but restrained himself enough to let him go a little. Enjolras took half a beat to get his breath back before he asked, “Are you sure?”

 

“Don’t be stupid,” Grantaire snapped, and lunged in for a kiss. Their mouths sealed together again, this time Enjolras licking his way into Grantaire’s mouth to get a better taste of him before he wrenched back with a scream.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite Jehan’s assertions otherwise, they waited to move Enjolras to Grantaire’s apartment until after the second time someone from the Center dropped by to ‘check up’ on him. The assholes still knew where Grantaire lived, but it would take a burst of luck and inspiration for them to actually guess that that’s where Enjolras had been taken. Already a chunk of Enjolras’ little group had reported Center employees sniffing around their flats to see if they could sense Enjolras or if there were Sentinel-friendly accommodations in place.

 

Their friend Joly caught one of the Center Sentinels literally _sniffing_ on his front stoop. Mother hen that Joly was, the Sentinel had been directly and dramatically dragged to the clinic where Joly worked. When the man finally made them all believe he wasn’t actually sick the staff demanded to know what he thought he was doing violating Joly’s privacy like that. The snoop had nearly been arrested before the Center could send someone to save him. Grantaire had laughed himself sick at the story.

 

They kept most of the little group away in case they were being tracked – a level of care Grantaire had thought was just paranoia until sweet Marius called to ask if the Center really did have government dispensation to search his apartment without a warrant? “I told them to wait outside on the stoop, while I tidied the kitchen, but I thought I ought to call Enjolras to check.” Joly was the only one actually allowed over, both because of medical talents and getting a Sentinel almost arrested made the Center wary of following him around. Even then he had to be snuck into the building by Eponine. (No one actually dared to suggest banning Eponine from Grantaire’s home. They valued their testicles too much.)

 

Joly had joined Jehan in his rant against long-term drug dependence, managing to time his arrival during one of the few times Enjolras was conscious. Joly’s advice was for Enjolras to lay low for the next few days until the drug was out of his system. Rare though they may be, there were reported instances of Sentical ramping up a Sentinel’s senses rather then tamping them down, and he assumed that was what had happened at the party.

 

(“After fifteen years?” Courfeyrac demanded. Joly was too furious at the thought of an eleven-year-old child being put on Sentical to actually articulate words to express his rage. Instead, he slammed his pile of research into Combeferre’s chest and stormed out of the room.)

 

For the most part Enjorlas drifted in and out of consciousness, his senses slowly but surely adjusting to the controlled environment of Grantaire’s flat. He’d wake up, spend a few hours re-balancing one of his senses, then drop back to sleep to recover. There had been no more screaming fits over the last few days, but Grantaire had been careful not to actually touch him again.

 

(Enjolras would seize him by the forearm, the harsh heat of his hand bleeding through the fabric and setting Grantaire’s skin on fire, but no skin-to-skin contact. And certainly no mouth to mouth contact, no matter how often Grantaire caught Enjolras staring at his lips with that considering expression. Like he hadn’t expected Grantaire to give in quite so easily, or to taste quite so good when he did.)

 

It took a harsh, spitting phone call from Eponine telling them that their dinner delivery would be late since she was getting trailed by Center lackies for Grantaire to accept what his paranoia had been telling him all along: this seemed fishy.

 

His own natural predisposition to hate anyone and everyone in authority meant he considered anything the Center did to be ridiculous and unnecessary, but even to a rational person this had to be a bit much. When he posed that question to the others, their first instinct was to brush off Grantaire’s cynicism, but after a few long minutes of quiet, every one of them paused.

 

“It’s just the Center wanting a spiking Enjolras under their control, isn’t it?” Jehan started.

 

Courfeyrac nodded along. “It’ll be hard for Enj to make a point about their corruption when every time he does they can point out that they were the ones who got him balanced again. They’ll probably make it sound worse than it was, like they saved his life.”

 

The two looked to Grantaire, hoping to see that explanation was enough to pacify him. Grantaire however, looked to Combeferre to see if it was enough for him. Combeferre, who was just staring at Enjolras’ sleeping form sprawled across the couch. He’d come down from Grantaire’s loft bed in the hope he might actually stay awake long enough to eat with all of them, only to fall asleep where he sat when Eponine’s arrival went past his endurance. “Wake him up.”

 

“What?”

 

“Wake him up, R.”

 

“Are you—”

 

“Do it!”  Combeferre snapped.

 

Grantaire shuffled over to the sofa and ran careful fingers through the ends of Enjolras’ curls. It was a temptation having his hands so close to brushing across Enjolras’ face, but experience had taught him it was better to test his own resolve than it was to put himself anywhere near Enjolras’ grabby hands when he woke up. He did so once again, exhausted fingers reaching out to the side to snag at precisely where Grantaire wasn’t. Enjolras arched back into the almost touch, trying to make it connect. “Come along, Apollo. We’re waiting on you.”

 

Enjolras cracked his eyes open and gave Grantaire the sort of soft smile that he imagined only came on a restful morning after. Combeferre, of course, choose that moment to clear his throat. Enjolras twisted back to look at him, but no blush spilled across his cheeks like it did for Grantaire.

 

“Enjolras…” Combeferre started, Courfeyrac on his right hand, Jehan on his left, and Grantaire still aimlessly stroking through Enjolras’ hair. Combeferre crossed his arms and heaved out a sigh before he barreled on. “I think it is time we acknowledge that you might have been put on the Sentical deliberately.”

 

Enjolras stilled in the way he did when he didn’t understand something he thought he should. “Of course it was deliberate. You remember what I was like after I came online. I could barely make it a day with spiking or sinking into a fugue. I needed it.”

 

Combeferre went to his knees beside the sofa, Courfeyrac dropping down next to him a half a beat behind. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you like this that I’d forgotten some of the details of it. Like looking back on that time I caught my parents ‘wrestling’.” Enjolras snorted out a laugh. “With all the benefit of adult hindsight I’ve spent the last few days thinking about when you came online. I’ve been thinking about everything Courf and I did to try and make things better for you. Given when I know now, it doesn’t seem like your father did much to help us. In truth, I think he might have done the opposite of everything he ought to have done.”

 

Enjolras stilled, mentally scrolling through what little he could remember about his father’s house from that period of agony. He recalled the acrid smoke of the fireplaces being constantly lit and burning his nose, the harsh summer sun always streaming through the windows so he had to burrow under the covers and stack pillows over his face to get some darkness, and his ears always pounded in time with the street renovations happening just outside the front door.

 

Combeferre pressed on. “And now I know that the Center kept you coming online suspiciously quiet.”

 

“Ferre, I barely rank as a Sentinel. There would be no point to mention it.”

 

“Enjolras… your father sits high in the National Assembly. You honestly believe that no one would talk about that?” Courfeyrac interjected.

 

“And you shouldn’t have been taken back to your father’s house if you were spiking,” Jehan added. “They should’ve kept you in the Center until your senses stabilized on their own. It’s been Center policy for years not to take a Sentinel out of the Center when they’re still on Sentical in case there’s a reaction.”

 

“Why in the hell would they dope an eleven-year-old in the first place?” Grantaire demanded. “Young Sentinels latch on to any strong Guide they come across and let themselves be balanced out. It’s not until Sentinels get older and stronger that they actually start feeling the need for their own particular Guide. A young, weak Guide should _never_ have needed medication!”

 

“Grantaire,” Jehan interrupted his rant. “I need you to look down for a second.”

 

Grantiare glanced down, thinking it was one of those times that Jehan was trying to distract him to keep from riling up Enjolras. Only, that didn’t seem to be the case. Somehow, Grantaire’s hand had slipped down the back of the couch and wrapped around Enjolras’ own. “Well, that was unexpected.”

 

“Really? ‘Unexpected’ is what you’re going with?” Courfeyrac snickered.

 

“Could we stay on task please!” Combeferre snapped.

 

Enjolras clenched Grantaire’s hand tightly in his own before he snapped right back. “You think that in keeping with his selfish bastard nature, my father forced me into spikes so that the Center, in its eminent corruption, could legally dose me with Sentical to keep my Gifts contained.”

 

Enjolras never been one to pull his verbal punches, and apparently he wasn’t starting now. The whole room flinched at the situation being laid out before them so bluntly. Both Courfeyrac and Combeferre reached out to Enjolras then paused before they could connect, like their touch wouldn’t be welcome anymore. Jehan rolled his eyes and shoved them both forward so they had to catch themselves on Enjolras or smash their faces where they didn’t want them to be.

 

“You’ve never trusted my father’s inclination to care for me so we researched long-term Sentical use right after they put me on it. The results said that eventually it would damage my senses but you both know about what happened when I kept trying to go off of it. Even now you’ve got me on the lowest possible dose and I get headaches all the time and can barely sleep properly.”

 

“Except for today,” Courfeyrac couldn’t help but point out.

 

“Today I feel more balanced and whole than I have since I came online. I wonder if I exhausted myself enough that my senses don’t torment me.”

 

“I would guess that Grantaire’s hand has a bit more to do with the balance than your exhaustion.”

 

Jehan forwent the strategic positions they’d been occupying and dropped down on the end of the sofa. Partly because he didn’t think confrontation was quite the way to go, and partly because he wanted to be close in case Enjolras spiked again and Grantaire panicked at causing it. “What happened at the party?”

 

Grantaire stilled, and Enjolras tilted back to see what had his so concerned. “What?” He asked, but Jehan misinterpreted the question.

 

“We can assume that you were strong when you came online, at least strong enough to be so much of a threat that they wanted to dope you. We can imagine that your Gifts have been fighting against the Sentical, and that something happened at the party to make you draw on them in a way you hadn’t before. The Sentical tried to keep you down, but your Gifts refused to remain caged, and the struggle between them forced your senses out of control.”

 

“That seems like a particularly romanticized version of events.” Jehan glared at Courfeyrac, who immediately added, “Not that that makes it sound any less legitimate. So what happened at the party?”

 

Grantaire and Enjolras weren’t really paying attention to the spat going on before them. Instead, Enjolras had all his focus turned on Grantaire, patiently waiting for him to fess up about what he thought had triggered this mess. “Out with it.”

 

“It’s really not—”

 

“We can’t disregard it until you tell us what happened to you.”

 

“It’s just a silly—”

 

“Let me guess, someone called him a whore again?” Jehan interrupted. And well, things just sort of went downhill from there.

 

Enjolras snarled and tossed Grantaire over his shoulder before hauling him up the stairs to bed. Courfeyrac grabbed Jehan and Combeferre, pulling them out of the path of a slightly feral Enjolras. Surrounded by friends as he was, Enjorlas came back to himself fairly quickly. Not quickly enough that he still didn’t end up all the way in the loft bed with Grantaire underneath him, hips squarely underneath his own, and wrists pinned to the mattress. Enjolras was mortified for a whole split second, then he drew in a breath to apologize and caught the full scent of Grantaire mixed with him on the sheets, and anything other than a contented rumble would’ve been a lie. 

 

“So,” Grantaire pursed his lips trying not to laugh. “We’re guessing that you overheard that at the party, then?”

 

“I think it’s a safe assumption, yes.”

 

“You know, we’re actually going to have to _talk_ about this at some point.”

 

“Talking really isn’t on my preferred list of activities at this specific moment.”

 

“Which is weird, because I thought talking was all you ever really wanted to do.” Grantaire had been content to ramble away while Combeferre slowly but steadily made his way up the stairs and towards the bed. He and Courfeyrac had had an eye argument about which one of them would get to poke their head into the lion’s den and see if Enjolras was in a place where he could be reasoned with. But when Ferre got within five feet of Grantaire, Enjolras twisted back around with a snarl. He blinked back to himself quickly, but Combeferre let loose one of those low, sad sighs.

 

“Ferre, I’m…”

 

“It’s not your fault, Enj. We knew you have to find your actual Guide at some point.”

 

“That’s no excuse for growling.”

 

Courfeyrac cackled from down below. “Enj, I have a feeling that you’re going to be a little more feral than usual. Especially when you start to factor in Grantaire’s—” Jehan stomped on his foot and Courfeyrac croaked out, “ _temper_.”

 

Combeferre took charge of the conversation once again, ushering the other two up the second level of stairs and to the rooftop garden that Eponine would eventually use to sneak in. He didn’t want to leave Enjolras undefended until the bonding was complete and the Sentical was all the way out of his system, but he could manage to offer up something resembling privacy. The moment the door shut behind them Enjolras started slowly peeling away Grantaire’s layers, breathing in each inch of skin before pressing a claiming kiss in his wake.

 

Grantaire let Enjolras trace the line of his sternum before he felt the need to point out, “You get that this probably means you’re an Alpha, don’t you?”

 

“Given the risk inherent in drugging me, I would imagine that I’ll turn out to be a Prime when I get all the way clean and we’ve bonded.”

 

“And you’re, uh…” Grantaire scrambled to keep his higher brain function firing when Enjolras breathed cold air on the freshly kissed skin of his lower belly. “You’re alright with that?”

 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

Oh and that, that was his hipbone that Enjolras was sinking his teeth into. No blood, but a little gnawing so that the bruise he left behind would be pressed every time Grantaire actually wore clothes for the next few days. “Because you think the whole Alpha and Prime system is outdated and based upon animalistic principles rather than actual leadership abilities or public opinion.”

 

“And that’s all still true.” Enjolras deftly undid the knot of Grantaire’s sweatpants, staring up at him through long lashes, almost daring him to keep asking questions while he had Enjolras between his thighs.

 

“And you’re alright with that?”

 

Enjolras rocked back on his heels, his hands on Grantaire’s hips to keep both him and his trousers up. He could feel Grantaire’s worry that when the world was balanced again and Enjolras had to get back to his real life he’d end up regretting this. “I’ve known you for months, R. Months where there was something about you that got under my skin and I couldn’t get you back out. I’ve been harsh with you, short and snapping and you’ve born up underneath it anyway. Despite all that, I couldn’t tell you were mine. If I go back on Sentical then I’ll got back to feeling that itch with no way to scratch it.”

 

Grantaire brushed his fingertips across Enjolras’ cheek. “This isn’t a betrayal of my principles, but I’d rather find a way to incorporate what I believe into this new world than live without you in the old one.”

 

Grantaire put his hands on top of Enjolras’, and with a brush his trousers dropped to the floor.


End file.
